


and sing a tune without a word

by Burning_Nightingale



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Boromir Lives, Friendship, Gen, Loyalty, Medical Procedures, Non-Linear Narrative, Rebuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 10:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14975282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/Burning_Nightingale
Summary: Ónen i-Estel Edain; ú-Chebin Estel AnimAt Amon Hen, Boromir lives.Boromir through the War of the Ring, and afterward; and the rebirth of hope in the land of Gondor.





	and sing a tune without a word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [l_cloudy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/gifts).



> So I focused a lot on your "Boromir Lives" prompt; I hope this lives up to your expectations! I've mostly stuck to book!canon here, and paraphrased or directly quoted a few sections of dialogue. Please excuse any canon mistakes, as I didn't do a full review ^^; There's a fairly mild description of the medical procedure to remove an arrow early on, which can be skipped if reading it is uncomfortable. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

_May, T.A. 3019_

There were rooms for the King of Gondor in the White Tower of Ecthelion. Rooms that Denethor and no steward before him had dreamed of making his own, rooms that had been abandoned since the last king of Gondor fell so long ago. They were musty, the stagnant air stale and the furniture covered in voluminous white sheets, but they had not been left to fall into disrepair.

Now, servants were pulling off one dust sheet after another with quick, dramatic movements, and throwing open all the many windows. There was a sense of relish in their work, and of excitement; the true King had finally come home.

Aragorn watched from a spot near the door, ignoring their furtive glances as he sketched the shape of the room in his mind. The desk would be there, where it would catch the light, and bookcases would line the walls, with more comfortable chairs sitting grouped around a low table in the oriel window-

“Enjoying your new rooms, my king?”

Aragorn turned toward the speaker with a raised eyebrow. “Has the White City returned deference to your tongue, Lord Steward?”

Boromir gave him a respectful bow that was quite at odds with his mischievous smile. “More accurate to say the company of my brother has taught me again what I forgot of propriety while we journeyed in the north. He was quite aghast at the wild rogue who accompanied you home.”

Aragorn felt his eyebrow inch higher. “Somehow I doubt he was at all surprised.”

Boromir let out a loud, joyful laugh, a sound that made the servants start and caused a smile to spring unbidden onto Aragorn’s own lips. “You see truly, as always,” Boromir said. “But come - can I tempt you from the contemplation of your apartments? Some Guild Masters have arrived, and Faramir simply insists you meet them.”

Boromir made it sound as if the Guild Masters had simply dropped by for tea, though Aragorn had been mentally preparing for their visit for the better part of the morning. “And he is right,” Aragorn said, turning to the door. “My rule would be considerably poorer if I lacked his advice.”

“Your champion of statecraft,” Boromir said, falling in step beside him as they started down the corridor. He was joking, but there was an undertone of pride in his voice that he could not disguise.

“As you are my champion on the field.”

“As I was your champion on the field,” Boromir said, “It is my dearest wish that I shall not have to draw my sword at your side for many years yet.” He smirked. “Much as I enjoy your company.”

“Maybe not in Gondor, but I fear in Arnor your hand may be forced to your sword hilt once more,” Aragorn said, “It is wilder country, up there. It has not known the hand of any ruler for many long years.”

Boromir was quiet for a long moment, as they gained the tower’s main staircase and began their descent around its winding spiral. “I almost cannot believe your ambition,” he said at length, “Not only to reclaim the Kingship of Gondor, but to rebuild Arnor as well? It sounds like a fairy story.”

“I am King of both by blood,” Aragorn said, “And my duty is to both. I cannot leave one to suffer; and especially not the land of my birth.”

Boromir looked like he was chewing over the idea. “It will be a great undertaking,” he said after another long pause.

“Indeed. But so too will be the remaking of Gondor; restoring Ithilien and Osgiliath, and maybe even Minas Ithil, if we can banish the taint from that tower. And there are many things that need to be made right here before we can even think of setting foot on the road to Arnor.”

Boromir’s smile was wry. “It is not as simple as setting the crown on your head,” he murmured.

“I never expected it would be. That was why I doubted, when I was young, before the quest began; but our triumph has erased any lingering doubt. If Frodo had the strength to walk into the heart of the Dark Land and stand against that great power, I must have the strength to restore the world he sacrificed so much to save. He has given us the gift of peace; I do not intend to waste it.”

For a moment Boromir looked at him with wonder in his eyes; then he shook his head, and his expression cleared somewhat. “It is almost as if you do not know the effect your words have,” he said softly, “The power you can command with speech alone; the way you wear resolve and determination like a cloak. The surety in your eyes when you speak of it. No one could doubt…” He trailed off, and then laughed. “Even here, in a simple conversation between friends, alone in a back corridor!”

Aragorn had not quite meant to reveal so much of his thought, but he found such honesty came easily while in Boromir’s presence. “If I cannot confide in my Steward, then who else will tolerate my ramblings?” he asked.

“Many; do not doubt it.” They reached the wide double doors at the end of the corridor; beyond, the throne room loomed. Aragorn could already hear the low voices of the Guild Masters. “But before that; politics.” Boromir did not look like he relished the idea.

Aragorn himself felt a strange sort of excitement; this was simply a courtesy meeting, where they would exchange only polite pleasantries and trivial information on the state of the Guilds - but it was a first step. A chance for the Guild Masters, some of the most important men in Gondor, to meet and take the measure of their new King.

“I will let you and Faramir speak for the main part, I think,” Boromir said, “This has ever been his arena.”

Aragorn’s steps paused. “You are the Steward of Gondor,” he said, “They will want to hear your words.”

Boromir shook his head. “Perhaps, perhaps not. My relationship with the Guild Masters has ever been tumultuous.”

Aragorn raised a questioning eyebrow.

“They love me well when I chase bandits from their roads, but not so much when my men by accident stir up the orc nests.”

“That would make for a strained relationship in any circle.”

“Now you understand my wish to remain silent.”

“As you will; you know them best, of course.” Aragorn motioned to the doors. “Shall we?”

“Lead on, my king.”

The meeting went well. The Masters were men of trade, used to concealing their true intent and feelings to make a sell, but Aragorn caught - or maybe only hoped he caught - the glint of respect in their eyes. He listened more than he spoke, for the Masters had many things to say and were clearly eager to begin proper, in-depth discussions of the state of Gondor’s economy. Such talk was not technically proper at this sort of meeting, but neither Faramir or Boromir objected. As he’d promised, Boromir said little, though he answered the questions directed at him with such magnanimity that Aragorn was left wondering what on earth he had been so worried about. Faramir, of course, excelled; but then again, Aragorn had expected nothing less.

“The colour has come back to your face,” he told Faramir as the three of them left the throne room together after the meeting. “The position seems to be suiting you well.”

“It is good to be out of the Halls of Healing, calm and restful though they are. I doubt anyone relishes the forced idleness of injury.” Faramir was smiling broadly; he looked satisfied, lively and full of vigour. “That was a successful meeting, your majesty. I believe they approve of you.”

“I can only hope so.” Aragorn glanced out of a nearby window, noting with surprise that the sun had not yet reached its zenith; he felt as if most of the day had passed, but it was not even halfway done.

 _I suppose this is what I have to look forward to._ “I believe my next meeting is with the Master of the Household,” Aragorn said, steering the little party left toward a descending staircase. “We did not have much time to speak at the coronation, or any time since; perhaps you could tell me of him?”

Aragorn was content to fall silent and listen as his companions began to describe a man they had clearly known since childhood – at times politely speaking in turn, and at others simultaneously expressing contrasting views. It felt strangely familiar – like listening to a more exuberant version of Elladan and Elrohir, or the various siblings among the Dúnedain.

The wash of words bore the three of them down towards the lower sections of the Citadel, and as he walked Aragorn felt strangely light; it took a moment for him to identify the feeling as hope.

_I give hope to men; I leave none for myself._

Well. Maybe he could have just a little.

  
/

_February, T.A. 3019_

At Amon Hen, Boromir lived.

One cruel black arrow pierced his flesh, sinking in just below the shoulder; but no more followed it. He fell to one knee, the hobbits’ screams echoing in his ears, and deflected a blade aimed at him from above, twisting his sword to cut its owner off at the knee.

Aragorn did not arrive in time to rescue Merry and Pippin; but he did save Boromir.

“I failed him,” Boromir gasped, later, when the orcs were all either dead or fleeing into the forest.

Aragorn, pushing away his grasping hands, ignored him in favour of inspecting the wound on his shoulder. He cut through Boromir’s clothes, pulling them aside to reveal the wound beneath. “Deep, but it has not touched heart or lung,” he told Legolas as the elf knelt beside him.

“Is it poisoned?” Legolas asked.

“Not to my eye. I will need water and the pot and stand to boil it in-“

Boromir caught Aragorn’s hand. “No. There is no time.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I cannot remove the arrowhead without cleaning the blade; the wound will fester.”

“I will take the risk. We must set out after the hobbits, as soon as I can regain my feet; we cannot linger, or we risk their death.” Aragorn remained silent, his lips pinched, and Boromir saw the conflict in his eyes. “It is my choice,” he said, quieter, “I will risk my own life if it will give us the chance of saving theirs.”

Aragorn stared down at him for a long, agonizing second; and then he sighed. “Very well.” He flipped the long knife in his hand, its point once again aimed at Boromir’s chest, and took something from the small pouch on his hip. “Chew this,” he instructed, pressing it into Boromir’s mouth. Boromir complied, wincing as an intense, bitter taste exploded in his mouth. It was familiar; willow bark, a treatment for easing pain.

Aragorn let him chew for a few minutes. Gimli appeared beside him and wordlessly handed him his wineskin, the contents of which Aragorn used to give his blade a perfunctory clean. “This goes against my every instinct as a healer,” Aragorn said, scowling, “But on your own head be it.”

Gimli slipped off his thick glove and held it out. “Bite down on this,” he said, his voice gruff. Boromir turned his head and spat the cud of the willow bark out onto the floor, and then dug his teeth into the proffered leather. It tasted of metal, mud and sweat, but it was better than biting off the end of his tongue.

“Hold him still,” Aragorn said, and Boromir felt Legolas and Gimli’s hands land on his shoulders. Aragorn hesitated only a moment more before lowering his knife to Boromir’s shoulder.

The pain in his shoulder doubled; he groaned, gritting his teeth around the leather glove. He kept his eyes fixed on the waving branches overhead, but he could still feel with excruciating detail every movement of the knife. Aragorn made a small incision, just wide enough to slip one finger into, and probed gently into the wound, looking for the arrowhead. Boromir screwed his eyes shut, riding out the pain.

“It is not lodged in the bone,” Aragorn said, relief clear in his voice. “Try to keep as still as possible, Boromir, while I draw it from the wound.”

Boromir told his body not to move, but couldn’t help the instinctive urge to recoil, to thrash, to do anything to get away from the pain. Legolas and Gimli’s hands were immovable as granite on his shoulders, and kept him pressed to the earth while Aragorn drew the wicked spike of the arrowhead from his flesh with slow, painstaking care.

It seemed an age before Aragorn sat back on his heels and said, “There, it is done.”

The hands on his shoulders relaxed, and Boromir sagged back against the earth. His shoulder burned like fire. He floated a little, the world around him becoming fuzzy; a wash of coolness on his shoulder brought him back.

He managed to fix his eyes on Aragorn, who was pressing something to his shoulder. “Athelas,” Aragorn said shortly.

Legolas was inspecting the orc arrow. “There seems to be no poison,” he concluded, setting it down.

“You said we must set out after the hobbits, Boromir,” Aragorn said, “The orcs took them all, then?”

“No; Merry and Pippin only.” Boromir winced as Aragorn began to dress his wound. “I do not know what became of Frodo and Sam; they were not with us.”

“I saw Sam as I came up through the wood, and bid him follow me,” Aragorn said. “He must not have done so. Perhaps they were taken also, in the wood?”

“We hunted and killed many, down away through the wood yonder,” Gimli said, pointing, “But saw no trace of the hobbits.”

“Perhaps they are at the river,” Legolas suggested.

“If they have not been captured by orcs, that seems most likely.” Aragorn tied off the dressing, then hooked a hand under Boromir’s arm. “Now you must regain your feet, my friend.”

Boromir leant on Aragorn’s arm as the other helped him to his feet. His vision wavered for a moment as he stood; then his eyes cleared, and he slowly let go of Aragorn’s arm.

His legs held. “I will regret this, perhaps, in a few days,” he said, “But if we are successful in our pursuit, I will be content.”

Aragorn eyed him thoughtfully. “You are set on following the orc band, then?”

“I would not lightly leave you or the quest behind; but I must make amends for my failure in whatever way possible. I must follow them.” It was not so hard now, to keep on his feet; the athelas soothed the pain, cooling the fire of the wound. He would be able to run.

Legolas, who had been searching among the bodies for usable arrows, returned with something in his hands. “These are the knives given to them by the Lady,” he said, holding them out to Aragorn. “And these orcs bear a device I have never seen before; a white hand on a field of black, and the elven rune for ‘S’.”

“For Sauron, surely?” Gimli said.

Aragorn shook his head, moving closer to the fallen orcs. “Nay, Sauron does not allow his true name to be written or spoken by those who follow his banner; and he does not use elven runes. These orcs had some other master.” He stood in grim contemplation for only a moment before he said, “Saruman. It can be only him; he has turned against us, as Gandalf said. It is a bitter betrayal.”

“Indeed, I had hoped Gandalf was mistaken on that point,” Boromir said, “Long has Saruman been a friend to the peoples of Rohan and Gondor.”

“These orcs will take the hobbits to Isengard, I would guess,” Aragorn said, “And that is a long, tiresome march. But we cannot abandon Frodo and Sam, if they be not with their captured brethren; we must check the river.”

They returned with haste through the forest to the river, Boromir finding it easier going than he had feared. His shoulder still ached with dull pain like a banked fire, a pain that flared whenever his feet stumbled on hidden tree roots, but it was a hardship he could endure.

At the river, one of the graceful white boats of Lorien was missing. They searched, but eventually Legolas’ keen elven sight spotted it, drawn up on the other side of the river.

“Two packs are gone, one of them unmistakably Sam’s,” Aragorn said, when they reconvened by the water, “And there are hobbit footprints on the beach. They must have crossed to the other side.”

“They mean to go on to Mordor alone,” Legolas said.

Aragorn nodded slowly. “Frodo did not wish to lead any friend into death with him in Mordor, but knew he himself must complete the quest. After he left us, he encountered something that hardened his resolve.” Aragorn’s eyes darted to Boromir’s, and Boromir knew he guessed at least something of what had happened.

Boromir did not allow himself to drop his gaze, but stared back openly. Aragorn could read many things in a man’s gaze; Boromir hoped he could see the sorrow, the shame, the resolve to never let such weakness overpower him again. The desire to follow in Aragorn’s own noble footsteps.

Some understanding crept onto Aragorn’s face; when Legolas suggested, “Perhaps they were pursued by orcs in the wood, and fled?” Aragorn only returned, “Perhaps.”

“This much is clear, then,” Legolas said, “Frodo and Sam have crossed the river, with the intent to continue on to Mordor; and Merry and Pippin are even now in danger, and being taken to still graver peril.”

“And we must make the evil choice,” Gimli said, “Which to follow? And which to abandon?”

Aragorn looked down at the hand he had curled around his sword-hilt, clearly deep in thought. Boromir had already made his path clear; he remained silent.

“There are four of us,” Legolas said, “Two could follow after the ringbearer, while the others pursue the orcs.” He looked steadily at Aragorn, who lifted his head to meet his gaze. “Your destiny lies in the White Tower, Aragorn,” Legolas said, quieter, “Perhaps you should go with Boromir toward Rohan; that road will lead eventually to Gondor, if my heart perceives aright.”

“You must have great skill in woodcraft,” Boromir said, “You would be able to track Frodo and Sam? To find them again?”

Legolas looked thoughtful. “I believe I would have some hope of doing so.”

“I joined the quest to protect the ringbearer; but if Aragorn does not will us to follow, I will not,” Gimli said, “And I guess that Aragorn has some doubt on the matter.”

Aragorn was silent for a long moment more; and then he let out a heavy sigh. “I do not lightly make this decision,” he said, frowning. “But I sense that Frodo and Sam have gone beyond our help; they must walk their own path now. It is not how I would have had it, but I do not think we can help them any further. The Company has played its part for the ringbearer; but for his brethren we may still have a role. Come! We cannot leave Merry and Pippin to their fate; we must follow the orcs.”

Gimli struck the ground with the butt of his axe, a frustrated frown on his face. “I like very little the idea of leaving Frodo and Sam unguarded,” he growled, “But if this is the course you will take, I will follow; you see events clearer than I, or so I believe.”

Legolas looked from Aragorn to Gimli, and then shook his head. “No; I cannot abandon you both, not even for the ringbearer. I too will take this path.”

Aragorn looked at Boromir. “You are still set on pursuit, no doubt?”

Boromir nodded. “I will run until my feet can carry me no more.”

“Then it is decided. We will need to move quickly to have any hope of catching the orc band, and we will need to travel light. If there is anything you cannot be without, now is the time.”

They gathered all they would need from the luggage, and left the rest hidden under the remaining boats; then they set off into the forest. As they entered the treeline Boromir looked back once, away to the far shore. He could not make out the white boat, but he fixed his eyes in its general direction.

 _Go with good fortune, my friends,_ he thought, _And do not falter. I vow to you now; I will not falter again._

/

_April, Fo.A. 5_

The dwarves had not been in the city more than a day, yet dawn found them in the square before the great gateway, measuring, tapping at the stonework and muttering to each other in low voices. Copious notes had already been taken by the time Aragorn and Boromir, accompanied by King Bard, found their way down to the square just after breakfast.

“King Thorin rarely waits, when he has made up his mind about something,” Bard said as they surveyed the scene. The dwarf in question was in the centre of a cluster of craftspeople, talking animatedly and with expressive gestures of his arms. “His treasurer will be furious with him, of course, but he was always going to leave her to hammer out the fine details of the arrangement.”

Boromir smiled inwardly; Bard did not seem possessed of the discretion that was usually a keystone of a King or Lord. He found he liked him rather the more for it.

“Do you know the royal treasurer?” Aragorn asked.

“Oh, I know her well. The accounts of the crown have been my sole responsibility for some years now.” Bard looked about the square, and then pointed. “Over there; the woman with the red hair and green dress, with the rubies in her beard.”

It took Boromir a few seconds to pick the lady out of the crowd, especially as for a moment he could not distinguish her from the surrounding men; but then he spotted her, a dwarf woman with striking bright red hair in intricate braids, who seemed to be berating the man in front of her rather viciously.

“Lady Bellís,” Bard said, “The sister of your companion Gimli, I believe.”

“Indeed?” Boromir said, surprised.

“They do have the same colouring,” Aragorn mused.

A small, polite cough brought the group’s attention to the man who had appeared by Aragorn’s side; Amarion, Gondor’s own Royal Master of the Treasury. “If I might have a word, your majesty?” he said.

Boromir opened his mouth, about to suggest that he and King Bard take a stroll toward the gates, but Bard beat him to it. “I will see if I can wrangle some details out of King Thorin,” he said, smiling. “Maybe I can convince him not to make things too extravagant.” Without waiting for a reply he walked briskly off across the square, greeting several of the dwarves as he went.

“I know what you are going to say,” Aragorn said, “In my defence, I did not know they intended to start as soon as they arrived; I had thought they would wait for the negotiations to begin, at least.”

Amarion looked incredibly put-upon. “I have already drawn up a proposal to put to their Lord Treasurer, of course, your majesty,” he said. “Though I am sure this will complicate things.”

“Indeed; I do not think I have ever heard of a craftsman willing to begin his work before he has even been paid a single coin,” Boromir laughed.

“The dwarves are certainly enthusiastic,” Aragorn said.

“My proposal is rather incomplete without some indication of the design or materials involved in the project, your majesty - though the Master of the Stone Masons Guild did give me an approximate cost for the repairs to the city that Lord Gimli spoke of when last he visited, and I must say the figure is…intimidating.”

“As I expected it to be,” Aragorn sighed. “Still, we can do nothing but pay it; I promised I would see the city restored to her former glory.”

“I have several ideas as to how we may go about repaying our debt in ways other than coin, your majesty,” Amarion said. “If I have your permission…?”

“Erebor’s Royal Treasurer is over there,” Aragorn said, pointing her out, “Lady Bellís. Perhaps you can speak now, and arrange your first meeting.”

“Or begin hammering out the details of the arrangement here and now, if I know anything about dwarves,” Boromir added.

Amarion’s expression was resigned. “Very well, my lord. I will let you know…how things progress.” He seemed to steel himself, and then set off across the square in Bellís’ direction.

Alone, Boromir and Aragorn stood in calm silence for a moment before Aragorn said, “I hope I do not ask too much of him. He has never negotiated with a dwarf before, correct?”

“We had a little diplomatic contact with Erebor after the reclamation; there was some discussion of trade.” Boromir shrugged. “Amarion will acquit himself with his usual vigour, no doubt. He has never been one to shrink from a challenge, especially not in his own area of expertise.” Spotting a familiar red-haired dwarf pushing his way toward them through the crowd, Boromir raised his voice. “We should be more concerned with our dear friend, I think. Could you really not wait for the money-masters to discuss terms of payment, Gimli?”

Reaching their side, Gimli grunted. “‘No use wasting time’, King Thorin told me, when I mentioned such to him,” Gimli said. “Bellís seems unconcerned; that is reassurance enough for me.”

“Hopefully it will be assurance enough for Amarion and the rest of my councillors also,” Aragorn said wryly.

“They will not complain so when they see the finished article; I guarantee it!” Gimli’s eyes shone with passion, looking past them to a vision only he could see. “The gates will be glorious - steel with inlaid mithril, or so Dralí has proposed. He is the master in charge of drawing up the final designs.”

Aragorn winced. “Do not let Amarion hear you say the word ‘mithril’; I am in enough trouble with my treasury already.”

Gimli tapped the side of his nose. “It will be our secret, then.”

“And the rest of the city?” Boromir asked. “I seem to remember some talk of repaving the great walkways, and strengthening the walls.”

Gimli grunted. “First we shall have to complete the task of _repairing_ the walls. Your craftsmen have made a valiant effort, but there are still flaws, at least to dwarven eyes. Aye, there are many things to be repaired, strengthened, or made more beautiful within the city; but I would wait for Legolas and his people to arrive before we begin those tasks. I know I will draw his ire if I do not leave enough room in our plans for his gardens,” he added, smiling.

Aragorn smiled. “Indeed you may draw my ire also, Master Gimli; for I wish my city to be more than strong gates and stonework, beautiful though your kin will make them.”

“‘Tis only right,” Gimli said, “Elves are the children of the wood, and dwarves the children of stone; but men may find joy and beauty in both. Not for nothing did your city draw the attention of both Legolas and myself.”

“We are eternally grateful for your presence,” Aragorn said, genuine warmth suffusing his voice.

“And I for the challenge!” Gimli rubbed his hands together. “The elf had best come swiftly, or he will find all the plans have been made in his absence!”

As Aragorn laughed, Boromir looked up over the bustling square to the city gate. Despite the presence of the dwarves - or perhaps because of them - people from the city and the surrounding lands thronged through the gateway and across the wide paved square, their voices and shouts creating a clamour that echoed in the morning air. The gates that stood open to admit them were hasty constructions, knocked together as quick replacements for those lost in the battle for the city. Their completion had provoked long arguments with the Carpenters’ Guild, who, having ensured the city’s temporary security, had wanted to begin construction of a grander, more lasting set; but Aragorn, with Gimli’s promise in mind, had denied them. It had caused no end of strife in the first year of his reign. Hopefully the dwarves would prove themselves worth the wait - and not bankrupt the crown in the process.

Gimli’s voice broke into his thoughts. “Come, your majesty,” he said, “I can see Dralí has a moment to spare; you should look over the plans with him.”

“Indeed; I would like nothing more.” Aragorn moved off, following Gimli, and Boromir fell into step beside him.

Despite all the worries that crowded his head, Boromir could feel an energy pervading the square; something like awakening, or the stirring of dormant plants after a long, cold winter.

At last, the White Tower had time - to heal, and become something new.

/

_March, T.A. 3019_

There was a quiet moment, while they sat around eating lunch outside the broken gates of Isengard, when Boromir went to one knee in front of the two hobbits and silently drew them into his arms.

For a moment all of them were quiet. The hobbits, despite their jovial nature, understood the gravity of his gesture, and did not trivialise it with jokes or light words; instead they wrapped their own arms around his shoulders and held him back, the silence full of emotions no words could convey.

Then Pippin coughed, and said in his usual cheery tone, “Now now, Boromir, I think any man who takes an arrow to the chest on another’s behalf has more than proved his honour, don’t you?”

Boromir pulled back and looked at him with a grave expression. “I think there is more to it than that,” he said quietly, “But you have my thanks all the same.”

There was no time to say more on the matter; in quick succession they confronted Saruman, began the trek back to Edoras, and grappled with the dual terrors of Pippin looking into the Palantir and the shadow of the winged Nazgûl passing overhead.

Their travelling party seemed strangely quiet once Gandalf and Pippin had disappeared into the night on the swift feet of Shadowfax.

Boromir found Merry by one of the cookfires. All around the Rohirrim were making ready to move, but Merry just sat, staring morosely into the flames. For a moment Boromir hesitated; then he sat down beside him. “Even brothers must part,” he said, laying a hand on Merry’s shoulder. “I have not mentioned him often, but in my heart I yearn to be reunited with my own brother, who is now not so far away.”

Merry looked up with interest. “You have mentioned him so little I had almost forgotten he existed,” Merry said, “Though I do remember your talking about him now. I suppose you mean he is in Gondor, then?”

“Aye, in the White City, or out guarding her borders, perhaps.” Boromir smiled to himself. “Faramir has ever been the diplomat; I suggested to my father that he should make the journey to Rivendell in my place, but he would not hear it.” Boromir felt a curl of shame in his stomach. “He would have fared better on this quest than I have.”

Merry looked at him incredulously. “Fared better? He must be a god among men! No less a man could match your valour and courage.”

That startled a laugh out of Boromir’s throat. “You give compliments with great honesty, Master Merry.”

“That’s because they’re true.”

Boromir looked down at his hands. “Well. If you tell me it is so, I will endeavour to believe it.”

After a moment of quiet, Merry said, “When Pippin arrives at the White City, he will meet your brother, then?”

“I hope so. I believe you would both enjoy his company.”

Merry looked away from the fire, out over the dark plains. “I hope they do meet,” he said, his voice no louder than a whisper, “I hope Pippin has someone to talk to. I don’t want him to be alone.”

Boromir watched him for a moment, unsure what to say; then he tried, “Well, if all else fails, he will have Gandalf.”

That made Merry snort. “Such a comfort that will be. You know what Gandalf’s conversations are like.”

Boromir laughed, and Merry began to laugh with him, and somehow in the face of their laughter the night seemed less dark, and the shadows less ominous.

“Come, Merry,” Boromir said, “We cannot sit like sluggards by the fire while everyone else makes ready to leave. Would you ride with me?”

“With pleasure,” Merry said, springing to his feet. Sadness still lurked in his eyes, but it seemed his burden had been lifted, at least a little.

It was later in the night, more likely the early hours of the morning, when they were overtaken by the Grey Company, Aragorn’s solemn, grey-eyed kin. The Dúnedain spoke little as they rode, and as they settled in when they reached Helm’s Deep; but there was something about them that drew the eye, something in their contained movements and occasional quiet words that projected an aura of mystery.

In the safety of the Hornberg Boromir slept, and when Legolas knocked at his door he joined the elf, Gimli and Merry in walking outside in the vale; but at all times his mind picked at the absence at their side.

When they crested the dike and stood looking down the valley, he could hold it no longer. “Did Aragorn not wish to walk with us?” he asked.

“I have not seen him since I retired last night,” Gimli said. “Did you not say he went into one of the high chambers of the Berg, Legolas?”

Legolas nodded. “That is what Elrohir told me when I asked after his whereabouts.”

“What is he doing, I wonder?” Boromir asked, mostly to himself, looking back up the valley toward the tall tower that crowned the fortress.

“Something he saw fit that only he and his kinsman know,” Legolas said.

“His kinsman?”

“Halbarad.” When he glanced at Legolas, Boromir noted that his eyes were also lifted toward the tower. “His thought will be revealed to us in time,” Legolas said. “But come; we have lingered over long, and must make haste if we do not wish to miss the midday meal.”

It was only when they were waiting in the yard, riders and horses milling and the King already mounted, that Aragorn appeared. The change in him was startling; his skin was grey, and he seemed to have aged many years in a single night.

When he announced his plans, Boromir thought he must not have understood. He opened his mouth, but Théoden and Éomer spoke first, and they confirmed what Boromir had feared.

He had heard of the Paths of the Dead. Faramir had read of them in one of his old tomes, and had told the story one night while they were camped in the dark of Ithilien on patrol, and Boromir had laughed at the attempt to scare him. But he had learnt the story was not some invention of his brother’s, and that dead men did keep the ancient way through the mountains; and the fear in men’s eyes when they spoke of it had left a deep imprint on Boromir’s heart. It seemed a vision rose before his eyes then, horrific and terrible, and he saw the darkness rise up and swallow the Grey Company, saw clawed, skeletal hands drag Aragorn and all his companions down into the dark.

“Legolas, Gimli and Boromir will still hunt with me, I hope,” he heard Aragorn say, “but we shall not forget you.”

His voice brought Boromir back to himself, and he saw that Aragorn was bidding goodbye to Merry, who sat on his pony with a most unhappy expression.

Despite himself, Boromir glanced at his own horse, waiting saddled and ready. Surely no one would scorn him if he elected to stay with Merry; the King and his heir were of unquestionable honour, but they would be seeing to many things more important than the wellbeing of a single hobbit.

But Aragorn hoped he would take the road with him; Aragorn wanted him at his side.

_I will not falter._

Boromir swallowed his fear, and watched without protest as the Rohirrim rode away.

/

_August, Fo.A. 2_

The vale was silent as the grave.

The sickly iridescent glow that had once pervaded it was gone, but the taint remained. The air felt heavy as Boromir drew it in and out through his lungs, and a thick, cloying scent invaded his nose.

Though Sauron and the Witch King were no more, their hold over the Morgul Vale remained.

“Hold fast to your courage, Echadir,” he heard Aragorn say quietly behind him, “The evil that once lived here is gone; only the shadow remains.”

Boromir had thought Echadir too nervous and weak-willed to make much of a squire, but Aragorn insisted he saw something in him. Never one to gainsay his King, Boromir spoke of it no more; but doubt had lingered in his mind. If the boy could walk to the gate of Minas Morgul without bolting, though, there might yet be hope for him. Boromir glanced over his shoulder. Echadir’s face was pale as bone, his fingers white around the hilt of his sword, but he was keeping pace, taking one step and then another forward down the vale.

Well; maybe Boromir had misjudged him.

They were almost within sight of the tower when they met the forward scouting group. Their leader, a man hardened by long experience scouting throughout Ithilien in the days of Sauron, greeted them with a quiet word.

“It is good to see you, Eston,” Boromir said, clasping the scout’s arm. “Now I know the King is in good hands.”

Eston inclined his head. “Thank you, my lord.” He turned and bowed to Aragorn. “Your majesty, we have scouted the vale up to the very gate of the fortress, and found no sign of evil creatures. This…atmosphere pervades, and only grows stronger the closer you get; but there is no trace of anything living.”

Aragorn nodded. “Then let us see what we came here to see.”

The tower of Minas Morgul was graceful, the ancient city rising in stepped levels just as her sister did, away over the plain. The tower lacked the fell lights that had once made it so sinister, but still it brooded over the vale, a tangible reminder of corruption not long defeated.

They stopped their horses some distance away on a rise, and surveyed the city from their vantage point. “I do not think it wise to go inside just yet,” Aragorn said; Boromir was fairly certain he heard several sighs of relief, though they were quiet.

“Will we ever be able to go inside, your majesty?” Echadir asked, his voice very faint.

Aragorn’s face was troubled as he surveyed the ancient fortress; he did not answer for several moments. “I do not know,” he said at last, “It may be that the city is forever tainted, and cannot be reclaimed; or it may be that the taint will fade slowly, enough so that my grandsons’ grandson might make his home here at last. I cannot say - but I will not give up hope of it entirely. It was raised by my ancestors, and was once most beautiful; I would not have it destroyed.”

From the look on his face Boromir surmised that destruction would be the fate Eston wished on the tower; but the scout said nothing.

Aragorn looked on the tower of Minas Morgul for a long time, silent in contemplation. Around him the men of his guard and the scouting party shifted, staring up at the cruel black mountains, or back the way they had come, the grey road that led to the promise of home and comfort.

As he sat in thought the rear party came up, with Faramir riding at their head. “So there it is,” he said in an undertone as he drew his horse to a stop beside Boromir’s. “It does not look quite so evil now as it once did; but still I do not feel drawn to pass through those gates.”

“Nor I,” Boromir said. “Much rather would I focus our efforts on the restoration of Osgiliath; but if this is the path the King chooses…”

“You will walk it with him.” There was a warm fondness in Faramir’s voice. “Aye, Boromir, if you would walk beside him on the Roads of the Dead, I have little doubt you would follow him anywhere.”

Boromir just hummed an affirmative, watching Aragorn. Little of his thought could be seen on his face, but Boromir sensed he was about to come to a decision.

Then Aragorn spoke again. “I will not lay this charge on any man who is unwilling; but I will ride the old road now, up and over the pass, to stand atop the height and look down into the land of Mordor. Any man who wishes may remain behind - but any may follow.”

There was concerned muttering among the men, but Aragorn ignored it, and spurred his horse off down the road. A good few remained behind; but Boromir, Faramir, Eston, and to Boromir’s surprise, Echadir all followed the King.

“He still goes where he wills, with little concern to body guards or Kingly deportment,” Faramir said quietly as they followed him down the vale. “At times it is as if the Ranger never left.”

“He never did,” Boromir said, with a small smile.

The heaviness in the air increased as they rode closer to the fortress. It pressed down upon them, and the hairs on the back of Boromir’s neck began to rise. Somehow he sensed that not every evil thing that had once lurked in Minas Morgul had disappeared with the Shadow; and suddenly he was reluctant to let Aragorn take one more step closer to the tower.

Despite his fears, nothing leapt from the shadows as they passed the massive, half-open gates of Minas Morgul, and they were unmolested as they followed the road that wound up the pass through the mountains. It was only an hour more before they reached its peak, and the view opened up before them; and they looked out over the land of Mordor.

It was a barren, broken plain of dust and ash, lit by the murmur of red light from the great volcano that rose high into the sky, so tall that even from this distance it dominated the landscape. The broken ruins of Barad-Dur were concealed behind it, and the desolate plain extended in every direction the eye could see.

Boromir heard Echadir give a little gasp. “Look,” he said, his voice a hushed whisper, “Down there - movement.”

They all followed the line of Echadir’s pointing finger. Little figures moved across the plain, almost invisible against the grey expanse. “Orcs, no doubt,” Faramir said, “This land is theirs now.”

“And let them keep it,” Eston said with feeling, “I cannot imagine a more bleak or ugly place. Dear gods.”

“Yes; this land has lain too long under shadow, perhaps too long to ever heal,” Aragorn said, “And a watch must be placed on the borders, and that watch must not fail as our ancestors’ once did.” All at once he looked weary. “The Shadow haunts us still,” he murmured.

Boromir spurred his horse closer. “It will fade in time,” he said softly, “Maybe not in my lifetime or yours; but it will be gone one day. We have given our descendants that gift.”

Aragorn nodded. He looked only a moment more; then he turned his horse and began along the road back down the pass.

/

_March, T.A. 3019_

Who could describe the horror, the slinking, creeping terror of the Paths of the Dead?

Boromir crept along, just ahead of Elladan and his torch, his heart in his throat. He ached to draw his sword, to have some protection against the dark; but Aragorn had not, Aragorn strode ahead undaunted with nothing but a torch in his hand – and if he could do so, Boromir told himself that he could do no less.

He could feel the elven eyes burning the back of his neck. He had not intended to seek out Aragorn’s intimidating, grim-faced elven foster-brothers; but one had found him instead.

The hour had been late, and Boromir had been returning alone to his tent; a sound behind him had had his hand leaping to his sword. “Who’s there?” he demanded of the darkness.

“One who would know the depth of your resolve, Boromir of Gondor,” a low, melodic voice had said. Part of the night seemed to move, and a lithe, grey-cloaked figure stepped into the light from Boromir’s torch. Boromir knew him instantly as Elrond’s son, but he could not tell the twins apart, and did not know which of them it was that had accosted him.

“None could question it,” Boromir said hotly. _Not anymore_ , a snide internal voice had added, but he had quieted it.

The Half-elven’s eyes seemed to glow in the torchlight. “Your heart wavered when Aragorn announced the path he intended to take,” he said, “And I sense you have faltered before. Almost fallen.”

Boromir had swallowed. “Once,” he admitted, his voice low, “Aye, I will not hide it. I cannot deny my heart was tempted by the call of the One Ring. But that evil power is far from here now; and I will not forsake my King.”

They had stood in silence for a long while, the glowing silver eyes roaming Boromir’s face. “I will not allow a man with a heart full of weakness to stand at my brother’s side,” the half-elven had said eventually, “But I think you may yet have the courage to stand with him.” He had frowned. “See that you do not fail.” With that, he had disappeared into the night.

Now Boromir walked with purpose, unflinching though his insides quavered. He could keep the fear inside; he would not falter. He had promised.

“Does Gimli still follow behind?” he hissed back behind him.

“He does,” was the curt reply.

“We should wait for him, perhaps.”

“He is close enough – and they will not touch him.”

Boromir had no need to ask who ‘they’ were.

Their voices seemed to fall on dead, thick air; but when Aragorn shouted his challenge, his voice alone rang around those close, black halls. “Keep your hoards and your secrets hidden in the Accursed Years! Speed only we ask. Let us pass, and then come! I summon you to the Stone of Erech!”

Boromir thought his heart would surely fail when the torches went out and could not be relit. Groping in the dark, his hand met another mailed, searching hand; and a gruff, familiar voice said from the darkness, “Ah! Something living in this dead place! Whose hand is this?”

“Mine, Gimli,” Boromir said with relief. “You fell so far behind, I thought we might have lost you.”

“Not I,” Gimli said stoutly, “Cling close to my hand then, my friend; and together we may find our way out of this evil place.”

Together, taking strength from the close if unseen presence of a friend, Boromir and Gimli made it through the clinging shadows. Boromir felt he could have cried with relief when he saw the darkness lightening, the window of blue night that marked the gate back into the outside world. They came out of a high-arched gateway into a narrow valley; and it was with great relief that Boromir looked once again on the stars high above.

“And yet still we are pursued,” Gimli said; he motioned back over his shoulder, though he did not turn to look.

Boromir felt it, and he too did not turn. “The Dead are indeed following,” Legolas said, appearing beside them with Arod’s reins in his hand.

“Yes,” Elladan said, “They have been summoned.”

They rode down the thin valley, and issued out into a wide vale; and when Gimli questioned as to their location, it was Boromir who answered. “This is the Vale of Morthond, Master Gimli,” he said, “A rich and prosperous place, though long under the shadow of the Dead Mountain.” He looked up at the sky. “We will be hard-pressed to make it to the Stone of Erech before this day ends.”

The terror of the Dead rode with them as they passed down the valley, and the people fled before them; but they rode hard, and at midnight reached the great black stone that stood alone on its towering hill.

Boromir had only once visited this place. Faramir had learnt of it in the course of his scholarship, and had wished to look on that which had been brought out of Númenor by Isildur himself. Boromir, scorning the tales of ghosts and shadows that surrounded it, had accompanied him. It had lived up to its legend; both had hesitated to draw near, and their guard had been relieved to be left at the base of the hill with the nervous horses.

Now in the midnight hour, the hill seemed to breathe malice and unease. But Aragorn was undaunted; he blew upon his silver horn, and its voice echoed around the vale. All at once Boromir knew that the host of the Dead was gathered, unseen, at the base of the hill; and though his knees trembled at the thought, he stood firm.

“Oathbreakers,” Aragorn shouted into the night, “why have ye come?”

A dread voice answered him. “To fulfil our oath and have peace,” it hissed.

“The hour is come at last. Now I go to Pelargir upon Anduin, and ye shall come after me. And when all this land is clean of the servants of Sauron, I will hold the oath fulfilled, and ye shall have peace and depart for ever. For I am Elessar, Isildur’s heir of Gondor.”

Boromir saw Aragorn motion to Halbarad; and his kinsman finally unfurled the standard he had carried from the north, and it flew proudly in the wind, though whatever device was worked upon it was invisible in the dark.

Beside him Gimli muttered and fretted, and even Legolas seemed tense; but Boromir knew. “Be not afeared, my friends,” he said quietly, “The Dead will answer the call; for the darkness does not deceive their eyes, and they know the standard of the King.”

“The standard of the King?” Gimli questioned, while Legolas murmured, “I had guessed that was what Halbarad carried.”

Boromir was surprised to feel tears in his eyes, and running slowly down his face. He could not even see the standard in the darkness, but well he could imagine it; the white tree crowned, and seven bright stars circled around it.

_The return of the King._

The idea echoed around his mind; only now did it seem real, close enough to reach out and touch. Still unfathomable darkness extended before them – but now they faced it with the true King returned, riding at their head.

Boromir had dedicated his life to the saving of the White City, but before his efforts had been as futile as one who stems blood flowing from a wound too deep to heal. Now, if he could but see the King to the end of this choking darkness…

He felt Gimli lay a hand on his arm. “I know, lad,” he said, his low voice gruff with emotion. “Aye, I remember; I felt the same way when they told me the dragon was dead, and the Mountain had been reclaimed.”

“The same way?” Legolas questioned. “What do you feel?”

“Hope,” Boromir whispered. “Hope, that this darkness will not endure.”

Through the darkness, Boromir faintly heard Legolas whisper, “Ónen i-Estel Edain; ú-chebin estel anim.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> "Ónen i-Estel Edain; ú-chebin estel anim" is of course Sindarin for "I give hope to men; I keep none for myself". 
> 
> The title is a slight variation on a line from Emily Dickinson's _"'Hope' is the thing with feathers"_.


End file.
